We All Fall Down (Infinity War)
by OfficialUSMWriter
Summary: Tony, it was the only way," Dr. Strange had said, staring at him with mellow eyes that didn't seem at all surprised when Quill and his team vanished. Tony could see Strange's posture in his head, sitting against the rubble, tired, but resigned. Accepting a fate he already foreseen. (POST INFINITY WAR) (SEQUAL-ISH to "ASHES, ASHES")


It's been hours since he boarded Quill's ship and Tony still can't bring himself to wash his hands.

His clothes are torn, stained with dried blood, sweat, and something else. Something he doesn't want to think about. There's not one part of him, inside or out, that doesn't ache. The deep wound in his side is the most obvious of his injuries, white-hot and burning like there's a metal rod ramming into his ribs constantly, over and over again. Simple tasks, like breathing, is becoming harder and harder to accomplish, making his head feel weightless yet heavy at the same time.

The space-ship, super jet, cosmo-car, whatever the hell he was on, jumped and he tensed. Grunting, he swung his free-arm over his side, hissing at the applied pressure, before going slack. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes with a light groan and tipped his head back. Swallowing hard, he tried not to let the dark mask of his lids turn into haunting images of a decaying planet, a team fighting for their lives, a knife glinting in an immense purple hand, innocent brown eyes, a red suit crumbling in his fingers.

It's quiet. Too, _too_ quiet. He wasn't used to it. Not after the hours of chatter, and noise, and plan making, and stupid comments, and...and pop culture references, and questions, and the 'Mr. Stark's, and, and, and...

If possible his wound hurts even _more_. Firing up like someone took a blow-torch to his insides, and Tony shifts to try and palliate the pain. Yet, at the same time, he can't bring himself to care. All he can do now is accept the pain. Embrace it. Take it because at this point did he deserve anything else?

"We're arriving at Earth," the blue-robot woman says, up front where she's at the controls doing who-knows-what. Tony glances at her, briefly, and slumps farther into the wall. He swallows, trying to fight down the rising swell of emotion that comes with that simple sentence, but can't quite staunch it completely. He doesn't know how many hours it's been since they left Titan, and he can't bring himself to care about that either.

His - his hands are dirty.

He sucked in a deep breathe, swelling his chest till it felt tight and ready to burst, rubbing a hard hand over his face. Scrubbing away the layer of stress, panic, and grief that had been falling on him since Thanos disappeared down that damned portal, trying to find _something_ to fill the empty space in his heart. Something that didn't make him feel like he was dying from lead poisoning all over again.

There were only two people left in their rag-tag team-up against Thanos. Two people out of seven. One minute he had been surrounded by them, and the next they were just _gone._ After they all...after they disappeared, Tony felt something inside break. Everything dulled.

After their initial defeat, all he had felt was a heavy weight pressing on him. A weight that pushed on his chest and made it hard to breathe. The same kind that woke him up in the middle of the night, claustrophobic and suffocating. Disappointment grabbed him by the throat with two hands and was squeezing. He felt as though Moljnir had been put on his chest, and any minute now it would fall the rest of the way and crush his lungs. Anger stabbed him in the gut, furious of the outcome. Grief held his heart in its hand, new from the surgery, with a knife poised over the top, slowing digging the tip inside to draw out the pain and make him suffer. Terror filled the rest of him, from top to bottom, infecting his veins like a poison. What was the consequence of their failure? Who else had died because he wasn't good enough to protect them?

But now everything was gone. He felt nothing. Something, a purple, bald-faced, nut-sack chinned _something,_ had drained him of every possible thought and emotion. Years of worrying and planning and waking up every night, blinking away the fragments of a nightmare was for _nothing._

Because _he_ failed.

"We're about to enter the atmosphere," the blue-robot speaks up, and through the corner of his eye, Tony noticed the way she glances at him. "Where are we going?"

Tony has no idea. He liked knowing things. He liked having a somewhat hazy grasp of control over his situations. Otherwise, everything felt unbalanced and chaotic, and too far out of reach for him to feel comfortable with. This was a situation he had no control over, no matter how flimsy that control might be. Tony wants to yell, wants to scream at the top of his lungs, curse every god, every higher-power, every _Titan_ that had stolen from him. But it dies in his throat, a strangled lump that slides back down and sticks to his ribs. Tight, secure, and afraid.

She's looking over her shoulder at him now, eyes sharp and dark. A hard, stoic countenance that reminded him of Natasha when she went into super-spy-mode. It sends a pang of yearning through him, and he wonders what happened to the team.

She's waiting for an answer that Tony can't give.

Where were they supposed to go? New York? Avengers HQ? Washington? Who knows what state the Earth was in. If the alien stooge-crew vanished up on Titan, _coincidentally_ after Thanos left, then wasn't it safe to assume that the rest of the Earth, the rest of the universe, was in the same set of ruins?

There was going to be chaos. Grief. Questions that needed answers. Questions that people would go to _him for_ \- the great Tony Stark who had disappeared in a glorified alien donut, only to come back when Earth was in a state of despair. Questions with answers that Tony didn't know.

When would the Government start hounding him? How long will Ross wait before he confronts him, demanding an answer? As soon as he landed? Or would they give him a few hours? Reporters, what kind of questions would they ask? The people, pedestrians, regular citizens, would turn to him.

What was he going to do?

He couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't come up with answers - his - his hands are covered in injustice and he _can't_ wash them.

He wants to go home. He wants to sleep and never wake up. He wants Pepp - instantly his breath halts and his veins freeze over. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. What happened to Pepper? Was she still there? Was she taken from him too?

Tony's hands are shaking and he's not sure when that started happening, but his stomach his curling and his chest is hurting so he doesn't care, and everything is tipping, and he can't _breathe._ The only warning he gets is a painful twist in his stomach, then he's doubling over on the steps, vomiting over the arched stairs he claimed. At some point, the puking turns into dry-heaving, which it only provokes the pain in his side into a wild, snarling beast with gnashing teeth.

The ache in his heart, to his great and utter surprise, expands tenfold and he feels as though he's gotten a bomb full of shrapnel in his chest all over again. He'a bleeding all over, everywhere, but there's no blood. Pain like this should involve blood. It's his only, scientific explanation. But all there is are muddy red stains on his clothes where Thanos had turned his own weapon on him. There's still a cold, frosty layer over his wound.

After a few grueling minutes of his stomach laying siege on the rest of him, it waves a white flag and alleviates the pinching pressure. Tony pulled himself up, pushing lightly from the mess he made and stumbles back on his knees. He takes deep breathes as he scoots back, falling back against the wall. His arm is still swung tightly over his side, but the pressure does nothing to help.

The blue-robot is staring fixated on the screen, but Tony knows she's getting impatient. Her fingers clench the steering device of the ship, her eyes are hooded into a scowl, and her jaw is set tight. But he can appreciate the patience all the same. There's a grief in her eyes too. She was mourning, just like him.

But she's still waiting for an answer, and the truth is Tony doesn't know where to go. He doesn't know what to expect when he touches down on Earth. He doesn't have all - any - of the answers. But he does know one thing: he wants to go home.

"Avengers Headquarters," he rasps, wiping sour spit from his lips. "New York,"

The blue-robot clutches the wheel tighter, jaw clenching. "I don't know where that is."

Tony nods. That's right. That makes sense. Last he knew, his Avengers address didn't get hyper-jumped into space for blue-robot aliens to find. His arms shake, his legs feel weak, but he pulls himself up and stumbles toward the front of the ship.

"I guess I'll show you," he says, slumping into the chair next to her none too graciously. He roams over the controls, not understanding the symbols and buttons, and unable to find the energy to even try. "Do you got GPS or something, how - how do you find where you're going on this piece of space-junk?"

"The guidance systems," she says, voice low and brittle, hollow and metallic, as she stiffly pushes a few buttons. "But it might not work for _places_ on your planet. You'll have to give me directions,"

Outside the window, Earth gets closer. At least from here, it looks peaceful. At ease. Content with itself in its small corner of the universe. A part of him feels relieved to see something so familiar and homey, but at the same time, it leaves him with a prickling sense of dread that stabs him in every nerve.

He nods. Then nods again. "Okay. The old fashion way, I guess. For now, I guess just...fly straight."

"Figured," she muttered, but Tony doesn't have it in him construct a retort.

For several minutes its quiet, and Tony falls into a drunken haze full of the humming of the ship and the rays of the sun basking the interior of the ship in light. In any other circumstances, Tony might've thought it was beautiful. He's been in space before, but back then it was dark, cold, and terrifying. When he had still been jumped with adrenaline and running the fizzling fumes of a terrible plan. This time it was different. There was light casting the ship in a gold-orange hue. Stars shone around him, brilliant and dazzling. The Earth he called home was cast in partial shadow, covered in blue and white so awe-striking it left him speechless. Yet, somehow, it still felt cold. It still made his hands get clammy and sweaty, and made unease a coiling snake in his stomach.

The blue-robot must've noticed his scowl. She keeps her eyes forward, fingers tight around the wheel, but her eyes soften. Just a tad. "That boy," she murmured, "the one that disappeared in your arms. Was he you're son?"

Tony figures she's not used to starting conversation. He doesn't know her. She must be as confused about him as he was about her. But it doesn't staunch the edge of anger that slices his chest just hearing about Peter. It doesn't stop the way grief instantly bleeds out onto his clothes, invisible to the naked eye as it stains his skin.

He starts to nod, then starts to shake his head, but even thinking about Peter makes his foundations crumble and he settled on a deep rattling breath. "He was..." he tries, but the words lodge in his throat, sticking to his tongue, unable to make the jump out. He coughs roughly, wipes his eyes, and clears his throat. "He was...he was a special kid," he sniffed. "He was..."

"Special," blue-robot repeats for him, glancing fleetingly in his direction, "to you?"

Tony nods this time, cause that's all he can do. Special to him didn't even begin to describe it. Back when Peter was ali - alive, Tony might've said the boy was toleratable. A kid that needed just a push in the right direction - whether that push came from his unworthy hands or not. But now he was gone, and Tony realized how horribly wrong he had been. Peter was so much more than a kid in need of support. He was...he was more than special. He was a good kid. A great kid. He...

He refuses to look down at his hands.

 _"Tony, it was the only way,"_ Dr. Strange had said, staring at him with mellow eyes that didn't seem at all surprised when Quill and his team vanished. Who wasn't even startled when he did the same. Tony could see Strange's posture in his head, sitting against the rubble, leaning into it, tired, but resigned. Accepting a fate he already foreseen.

Tony see's a red suit deteriorating before his eyes. He feels the kid clinging on to him, feels him fusing with his clothes. The desperation in his voice, the fear in his eyes.

 _"Please, Mr. Stark. I don't wanna go - I don't wanna go - please,"_

"Thanos took my sister," the blue-robot says, drawing Tony up from the memory before he's too far gone, "He exchanged her soul for the soul-stone. She was...special to me too."

"I'm -" I'm sorry doesn't sound right. Sorry, wouldn't bring either of them back. Tony's not sure what to say because what he _can_ say? He flounders for a minute, then asks, "What was your name again?"

"Nebula," she answers, curtly.

"Oh. Hi. I'm - I'm Tony."

They fall into an unwitting silence after that.

They're so close to Earth now. Just about to breach the atmosphere.

"Buckle in," Nebula suggests, shifting in her seat, "entering atmospheres can get bumpy,"

Tony decides she would probably know more about that than him, so he takes her advice. The buckle is pretty basic and he's buckled in by the time fiery streaks begin licking up the sides of the ship. He doesn't know where they'll end up, how far they'll be from a city, or how mankind will welcome their arrival.

Another space-ship breaching Earth mere hours after they were attacked by a bigger, deadlier one would hardly be greeted with hugs and kisses. They're close enough now that Tony feels the remaining nanobots stored in their holding device begin to hum. Most of the nanobots had been damaged in the fight and in dire need of repair and programming, but the thrill of reconnecting to his servers is enough that he has them rolling back over his body. A half-formed suit is the result, sticking with severed pieces of metal and wiring.

The blue-tooth in his ear reforms, alive with a static and white noise that is almost comforting.

"Friday," he says into the comm, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels, "Friday, are you there?"

 _Bos - Boss_ , the inquiring voice of his AI responds, broken up in static, but growing stronger by the second. _Boss, you disappeared off my servers._

"Friday, call Pepper. Now."

 _Yes Sir_

A ringing fills the silence, and Tony taps his finger against his leg. He stares at his hands, dark and messy. He imagines its stained with blood.

"Come on, Peps," he whispers, "Come on. Come on, _please,"_

It keeps ringing.

Tony grips the armrests of the chair, staring past the white light of clouds as they disappear, expanding into a wide open sea.

It keeps ringing.

"Please, Pepper. Please be there,"

It keeps ringing.

He see's Strange's eyes, dark and apologetic. _We're in the end game now._

 _-RING_

 _-RING_

 _-RING_

 _-CLICK_

"Tony? Tony is that you?"

 **Guess who stayed up past their undiscussed bed-time watching "Infinity War" alone in the dark with nothing but a laptop and a crap-ton of feels to keep them company?**

 **T.T Everything still hurts.**

 **Freaking disclaimer because there ain't no way I'm taking credit for "Infinity War". Frickin great movie with its frickin feels and its frickin amazing character and its frickin way of making me feel emotions and for frickin killing me and frickin frickin frickin frickin frickin**


End file.
